Failing Means Yer Playin
by Shahrezad1
Summary: Young MacGuffin dinnae ask to be haur, but 'e tries to mek the best o' it. An' finds somethin special en the meanwail. Mostly in English, bits in Scottish with the aid of reference.


Failing Means Yer Playin

By Shahrezad1

Summary: Young MacGuffin dinnae ask to be haur, but 'ee tries to mek the best o' it. An' finds somethin special en the meanwail.

Disclaimer: I dinnae own Brave or the characters therein. Heck, I don't even own the dialogue. You can thank the internet for that. ;) But I do own my ideas. Enjoy, but don't sue. Thanks!

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**Failing means yer playin!** - _When you fail at something at least you're trying. -_ www . scotland –welcomes -you Scottish _ sayings .html (remove spaces)

It felt like he'd swallowed a stone, a raw aching weight in the base of his stomach that had settled in sometime immediately after supper the night afair. Round aboot the time the young princess had announced what trial it was to be which determined the fate of the young suitors.

_Archery. _The one art he'd never felt akin to, with his large hulking demeanor and fumbling hands. He was more for the brute force of caber tossing, spear throwing, or sword fighting. To him, archery was much like his attempts at writing as a lad. A pure mess, just waiting to humiliate him in turns. It had never mattered if he was talented in that degree before, but now…it seemed his future was at stake. Or at least the pride of the clan.

Young MacGuffin, Andra to none but his siblings and Mum and even sometimes not e'en his own Da, twitched a look at his father and then the crowd. To an outsider the Lord might'en seemed unchanged, but he could see the anxiousness in his stance and the bristle of his beard. The head of the Clan knew what his son's strengths and weaknesses were, and the fine art of Archery was not one of them.

Likewise the bevy of MacGuffin warriors behind him, the best in the clan, tried to stand up proudly but he could still hear the whispered worry as an undercurrent. In contrast the Macintosh clan seemed abuzz with excitement. It was said, he'd overheard when they'd settled in this place for the tournament, that the young heir, Coinneach, was proficient at many weapons including the bow. Andra could only wish that the rumors weren't true.

He'd hoped, for his clan's sake if not his own, that he might be in the running for the lady's hand. And at first it had seemed like he was the most likely choice. Particularly when confronted with the boasting of Macintosh and the…unlikelihood of Dingwall. But now…there was a large chance that he might lose. And he wasn't sure whether to be happy or disappointed with himself. Sure, the bonnie wee lass would be out of his hands and he'd be free of his predicament as firstborn, but any self-respect that might've been garnered from the proceedings was sure to be lost.

There were mixed feelings there.

And apparently he wasn't the only one with them.

Dodging another glance as the dais, his eyes landed on the wee Princess. From this distance he couldn't see much of her, even as the first in line for the competition. But his gaze could outline her form and remember her appearance from the day prior. Slim, long limbs like her mother. An oval face and a sloping pointed nose. He imagined she would grow up to look like her ma and wondered if she knew how fair she was to end up being. Probably not, if her slouch was any indication.

Andra couldn't tell what color her hair was from a distance, the single curl upon her face too far away for any confirmation, and he wondered wot she looked like without the lady-like wimple. Actually, he wondered a lot of things about her. What she was like and what she liked to do fer fun. She didn't seem too pleased to be thair, hiding as she had behind her headwear the nicht afair. And now there seemed to be a petulant way aboot her, as though she was dreading the result of the games as much as he was.

Well, that was two of them, then. But he would still try his hardest. After all, there was no point en embarassin' his family and should he fail no one could say that he hadn't tried.

Lining up with the rest of the lads, he gingerly gripped the bow tween hands the size of dinner troughs. He'd brought no bow of his own so had to borrow one from one of his clan. But the arching piece of wood looked like a toy in his grip, and felt like it too. He could practically snap the thing in half afore he got the chance to send a shot off. And with that thought in mind he carefully pulled the string back and…let go. Trying to aim in the process and failing entirely.

Immediate disappointment was what followed, and Andra groaned softly as he saw the results of his attempt. It was a poor excuse for a competitive entry and even worse when a lady's hand was on the line.

His father's self-aimed smack in the face was an indication of his own frustration and Andra tried not to let the old reflex of curling in on himself become too apparent. It happened quite frequently when one was as large as he was. After all, the only way to avoid punishment might be to make oneself smaller; there really was no point in trying to hide otherwise.

Once the instinct had gone its merry way he sighed heavily, turning to watch the other lads and wincing as Macintosh's arrow hit close to the mark. But that was nothing compared to his surprise at the man's tantrum a moment later. _Well, handsome is as handsome does_, he supposed.

And then it was Dingwall's turn. Simon dinnae e'en seem to be aware of the event—where he was, wot he was doin', the importance of his shot. But in an instant of startlement the end result was the same—Dingwall had shot a bulls eye.

Nay, it couldn't be. He stared, dumbfounded, at the wee young man, who dinnae seem to notice what he'd done. Up aboard the stage the King en the Queen seemed tae be in shock as well. But the Princess…

A flash of blue as bright as the sky marked the lady's disappearance and without pause one of the King's hounds took her place. Andra blinked in surprise at the sight, mouth open and brows furrowed. Where in the world had she gone…? A rustle of movement and the sold thunk of wood meeting dirt came from his immediate left, causing him to turn automatically.

A stranger stood there, bow in one hand and flag in the other. And then, standing parallel to him at chest-height, the figure threw off the hood to reveal the Princess herself.

He nearly tripped o'er his kipper feet.

_Red._ Red was his first impression, as fiery as a fox, as thick as the wood and untamed as Scotland's wild wind. And clear, intelligent eyes, as reflective as the sapphires his father had given his mother fer her weddin'.

Without noticing it his heart began to race and his breath cut off midway. It was almost an effort to focus on the moment at hand and the words coming from the gel's lips. And for the first time in his eighteen years Andra found himself smitten with what he saw before him.

"I am Merida! And I'll be shootin' fer my _own_ hand!"

Still wearing the dress she'd been thrown into, he could see her motions jerk as she tried to fight the ties that bind. Even so there was an inherent grace about her; the kind one might find in the deer of the forest. She was flighty and headstrong, and with a mighty rip she was free of her confines.

And shooting at his target.

The sharp thwack of her arrow landing felt like a rip at his own chest, and without thinking about it he gripped the family tartan he had over his shoulder, right over his left rib. But the Princess—nay, _Merida_, wasna done yet. She continued on to the Macintosh mark, aiming her weapon a second time and letting it fly, all while maintaining a swift walk. Only once she was parallel to Wee Dingwall did she pause to focus, her form as strong as a mountain and as elegant as a bird. And with the she-cat of a Queen bearing down upon her, she let her last arrow soar.

The world went silent for the MacGruffin's eldest then. All he could see was the vision before him of Merida of Dunbroch, fierce and bonnie, shooting down tradition by her own hand. And then the moment was done, ending with arrow splitting arrow and slamming into wooden support posts.

Queen Elinor was furious and the crowd was in uproar, ready for a donnybrucker, but all he could see was the gel.

The blonde giant dodged a glance at the other two lads, but Coinneach seemed more shocked than anything and Simon was off en his own little world. The three lords were screaming and arguing as the Queen dragged her only daughter off, and all that King Fergus could do was stare.

Meanwhile Andra MacGuffin was caught in the thought that she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

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**AN:** I chose the name **Andra** (Lowland form) as it is a variation of Andrew, meaning "Strong" or "Manly." It's usually used in relation to being a defender of some type. The other variations are Anndra or Aindrea…

All I can say is that there's a reason I chose the lowland form. ^^; St. Andrew is the Patron Saint of Scotland.

**Simon**—"Listener"

**Coinneach** — (KON-yokh or KUH-nyuhx) "good, beautiful"; "handsome face or head".

**I tried to keep most of his language self-explanatory, but here are a few words and phrases of notice.**

**Nicht afair**—The night before.

**Handsome is as handsome does**—" Applied usually to a good looking man who thinks he can get away with stuff."

**Kipper Feet**—Big feet.

**Donnybrucker**—Fist fight.

**Names were found here**: www. Amethyst –night names /scot male. Html (remove spaces)

**Dialogue usage comes from several sources (remove spaces):**

www. linguanaut English _scots .htm

www. omniglot language /phrases /scots. php

mylanguages Scottish _phrases .php

www. scotland- welcomes- you scottish_ sayings. html


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